


God Rest You, Dr. Watson

by KathyG



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Dogs, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, No Slash, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:31:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5576764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day after Christmas, John sprains his ankle on his way home with the groceries.  How does he deal with an impatient Sherlock who wants him to accompany the detective on a case?  Set on the day after the Christmas party in the second-season episode, “A Scandal in Belgravia.”  One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	God Rest You, Dr. Watson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silverblazehorse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverblazehorse/gifts).



> Author’s Note: This story was written for the secret Santa fanfiction exchange on the BBC Sherlock fan forum. My prompts are as follows: Mycroft, Violin, Husky, Christmas tree, and London. And/or this object: Christmas tree on Times Square. Merry Christmas, silverblaze! This story is for you. And thanks to ukaunz on the forum, for beta-reading my story!

John carried two bulging grocery bags as he walked down the sidewalk toward Baker Street, one bag in each hand by its handle. It was the day after Christmas, and he had just bought the next week’s groceries at Tesco. The sun blazed overhead in the cloudless sky, and yet he shivered as the chill wind seemed to blow through his black jacket. His shoes left tracks in the thin, melting blanket of snow left over from yesterday’s snowstorm. 

Suddenly, John stepped into a hollow in the ground. Pain surged through his right outer ankle as he fell. “Humph!” he grunted, upon landing face-first on the dead grass sticking out from the snow. The grocery bags landed on the ground beside him. Fortunately, none of their contents rolled out. 

Cursing, John managed to hobble to his feet. Bending over, he picked up the grocery bags, checked to make sure that their contents were intact, and then slowly limped down the street, gritting his teeth. His ankle throbbed with every step. _I’m going to have to tend it when I get home,_ he thought. _I could sure use a cab now!_

As John came to an intersection two blocks down, a sleek black car pulled up next to him. Mycroft was in the front passenger seat next to the chauffeur, immaculately dressed as always. “It looks as if you need a ride, John,” Mycroft said. “Come in and I’ll take you to the A&E, to have your ankle examined.” 

Nodding, his thanks John transferred one of the bags to his right hand; with his left, he wiped the snow off of the side of his jeans, opened the back door, and climbed inside. The cushioned black passenger seat sank underneath his weight as he sat down. Wincing, the retired army doctor carefully set his injured foot on the car floor and the grocery bags on the seat next to him. 

“How did you know I sprained my ankle?” he asked. “And how did you arrive so quickly?” 

Mycroft chuckled. “It wasn’t difficult,” he said. “I just happened to be out on an errand not far from here when Anthea called me. She was watching you on a security camera, and she saw you fall when you stepped in that hollow in the ground.” 

John nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I should have realized.” With a sigh, he leaned against the soft, leather-covered seat. The warm air coming from the heater felt good on his skin. _It’s a good thing I didn’t buy any perishables this time,_ he thought, glancing down at his grocery bags. _I would hate to have bought anything that’s going to spoil while I’m having my ankle examined._

They stopped at a nearby hospital, where Mycroft helped John into the A&E. There, following a short wait, a doctor ordered John’s ankle X-rayed, after which he diagnosed the injury as a mild sprain and wrapped it in an Ace bandage. “Stay off of it as much as possible, Dr. Watson,” he ordered. “And keep an ice pack on it for an hour when you get home.” John nodded. 

Mycroft took the retired army doctor home. On the way, John’s mobile phone beeped. Realizing that he had a text, he pulled it out of his jeans pocket, and pushed the button. _Got a case,_ read the message. _Come home at once. SH_

Shaking his head, John slipped the phone back into his pocket. “Message from Sherlock?” Mycroft asked. 

“Yes,” John said. “He’s got a new case, and he wants me to come home immediately.” He grimaced. “Only thing is, I can’t go out to help him investigate it. He’s going to be put out when he learns of this.” 

The driver parked the car in front of 221B Baker St., and John and Mycroft climbed out. John inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. Mycroft extended his right arm and wrapped it around John, who wrapped his left arm around Mycroft’s chest and clutched the grocery bags’ handles with his other hand. Mycroft helped the injured man up the stairs, and then he dropped his arm to his side when they reached the landing where John and Sherlock’s flat was. 

As they entered the flat, Sherlock frowned at Mycroft. “What are you doing here?” he asked. 

With an amused smile, Mycroft shook his head. “Offering John a lift, of course,” he said. “He hurt himself on the way back from the shop.” He turned to the doctor. “I’ll take these to the kitchen so you can sit down.” 

With a grateful smile, John handed Mycroft the grocery bags, and the unofficial British government carried them into the kitchen and left them on the wooden table. As he removed his jacket and draped it over his armchair, John glanced at the Christmas decorations, which had been set up a few days before for the previous evening’s Christmas party. They sparkled in the sunlight pouring in through the living room windows. He glanced at Mycroft, who was setting the grocery bags on the table in the kitchen. _He’s not usually so considerate,_ he thought wryly, _but I won’t complain!_

Sherlock glared at John. “What do you mean, you hurt yourself?” he demanded. 

“Just what he said,” John said. “I stepped in a hollow and twisted my ankle. Fortunately, it’s only a mild sprain, but I’m afraid I won’t be much help to you for a few days. Right now, I’m under doctor’s orders to put some ice on it.” He gazed at Sherlock quizzically. “Why, is it an important case?” 

“It certainly is,” Sherlock snapped. “A Siberian husky has been stolen, and I have been asked to go find it. I was hoping that you could help me.” 

John shrugged. “Well, Sherlock, any help I can give you, I’ll have to give you here. I cannot go out with you to search for clues until my ankle is well.” 

Sherlock huffed. “Did you _have_ to get yourself hurt today, of all days? I need you to go with me!” 

“Well, I can’t!” John snapped. “I’ve got to rest my ankle, so you’ll just have to go by yourself this time. But if there’s any way I can help you from here in the flat, I will.” 

He paused. “Why don’t you take me to see the dog when you’ve solved the case and my ankle is well? I should like to see it, even though I can’t go help you find it.” 

With a sigh, Sherlock nodded his reluctant agreement. “All right. I’ll take you to see the dog when it’s found, and your ankle is well. I may need your help when I return, so be ready.” 

John inclined his head. “All right. Just let me know when.” 

Mycroft pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at it. “Well, I’ve got to get back to work, so I must leave now. Good-bye, John, Sherlock.” 

“Good-bye, Mycroft, and thanks for the lift,” John said. 

“You’re welcome, John.” Mycroft left the flat. 

Sherlock sighed again. “Are you still going to Harry’s for a visit?” 

John sighed in his turn. “Not till my ankle heals, no. I’ll have to postpone my visit until then, so I guess I’d better text her and let her know what happened.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll be back later, John.” Grabbing his coal-black Belstaff coat, he put it on, wrapped his blue woollen scarf around his neck, and hurried out the entrance door. 

After John had limped to the kitchen and put away his purchases, he pulled a dish towel out of one of the kitchen drawers and wrapped some ice in it. He got a metal pan out of the cabinet and a frigid can of fizzy drink from the refrigerator. With the pan, ice, and fizzy drink in hand, the doctor limped back into the living room, where he sank down onto the sofa’s soft cushion, set the pan on the floor, stuck his injured foot within it, and then wrapped the ice halfway around his foot. The dish towel packed around the ice felt numbing against his injured ankle. 

_When I take off the ice, I’ll make myself some tea,_ John thought, as he leaned back and laid his hands in his lap. _I’ll have to get a cushion for my foot when I do, so I can rest it on the coffee table. If Sherlock needs me to conduct any research regarding the missing Siberian husky when he comes back, I’ll have to do it from this couch. Right now, though, I’d better text Harry._

Digging his mobile phone out of his pocket, John hastily typed the message and sent it to Harry. Afterward, for a long moment, he sat admiring the Christmas decorations, taking sips from his ice-cold fizzy drink, and thinking about the night before. He remembered the guests who had come to the Christmas party: Detective-Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, and John’s current girlfriend, Jeanette. He sobered as he remembered Sherlock finding Irene Adler’s camera phone on the fireplace mantel, wrapped in bright-red paper and tied with a black cord, during the party, and how John had searched the flat for drugs soon afterward, while Sherlock and Mycroft had gone to Barts to identify Irene’s body, since the previous night had been one of Sherlock’s possible danger nights. 

Reaching for the television remote, John switched on the telly. The news was on, and the anchor-man was talking about the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Centre, across the ocean in New York City. The video camera showed a group of warmly-clad people skating in the ice rink below the tree. _Well, New York City has a lovely Christmas tree, but there’s nothing like a Christmas celebration here in London,_ he thought. Smiling, John gazed at that Christmas scene and listened to the news commentary until he fell asleep. 

A slamming of the entrance door startled him awake. He shot up to see Sherlock striding into the living room. “Sherlock! What is it? Do you need me to help you do some research to find that dog?” As John spoke, he noticed that it had turned dark outside. Grabbing the remote, he switched the telly off. 

“No, no need for research; I’ve solved the case. The husky has been found.” Sherlock smiled broadly. “As soon as your ankle is well, I’ll take you to see it.” 

“Great!” Beaming, John leaned back against the sofa. “I’ll look forward to seeing it.” 

Grinning at him, Sherlock removed his coat and hung it on a nail. “Uh, Sherlock, if you’re going to the kitchen, would you return these for me?” John handed him the chilly metal pan, which was now partly filled with cold water and a soaked hand towel, as well as the empty fizzy-drink can. 

Nodding, Sherlock took the pan and the can. “I’ll get you a cushion for your foot in a minute.” He then pranced to the kitchen to get drinks for both of them; en-route, he paused to rub his fingers over his violin. John smiled as he reclined against the back of the sofa. It wasn’t at all difficult to surmise that Sherlock was going to play some music when he had gotten their drinks and John’s cushion.


End file.
